


hard to control when it begins

by youcouldmakealife



Series: in taking it apart [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike knows from the get-go that it’s a fucking stupid idea. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hard to control when it begins

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Yes, this is technically linked to [you could make a life](http://archiveofourown.org/series/49708), but said link is merely that it's in the same universe. Here we have a completely different cast of characters, and this is shaping up to be multi-part itself, so adding it to _you could make a life_ would just get confusing, fast. 
> 
> I um. I currently have seven ideas in this universe fighting for control in my head? This won out for now, but they're all pretty tenacious, so the hockey RPF tag may get spammed. SORRY I'M NOT SORRY. 
> 
> I've started a tumblr for this universe. Come join me! I'm happy to answer any questions, and that will be the one stop repository for all information on said 'verse, because AO3 is great in many ways, but handling multiple series in a 'verse is insanely difficult with it. I'm over [here](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/youcouldmakealife).
> 
> Thanks always to Clo, who helped this ride the line of middle-skeevy and not move into gross-skeevy, I hope.
> 
> Warnings at the end.

Mike knows from the get-go that it’s a fucking stupid idea. He doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. 

The kid gets called up halfway through the season when Steinberg breaks his foot. And he is a kid, eighteen, baby-faced, smaller than everyone else, 5’9” and so determined to make up for it. He does, on the ice, he’s fast, smart, can take a hit well, looks like he’s going to fit in just fine in Edmonton. Steinberg’s going to be gone for awhile, and he’s good enough that they wouldn’t send him down, not in their right minds, so Rogers and his fiance take the kid in, make up a guest room, get him settled.

That sort of thing happens a lot, and Mike’s no Rogers, his job isn’t to coddle the babies on the team. He’s pretty sure they look at him with a mix of awe and fear, which is fine by him. So it wouldn’t be anything, just a roster shuffle, except that for some reason Liam Fitzgerald doesn’t know any better and decides to latch onto him.

It starts off pretty easy to ignore. Fitzgerald’s clearly looked around the room, found the person least likely to be friendly, and focused all his charm on him. It’s not inconsiderable, his charm, though he’s more charming when he isn’t trying to be, cycling through bravado and insecurity like every kid his age does, playing with the big boys and trying to keep up. Mike’s been doing this shit for over fifteen years, and that’s something that’s never changed, is never going to change.

Fitzgerald makes a space for himself wherever Mike is, stretching himself out in a seat beside Mike on the plane while Mike rolls his eyes and goes back to his magazine, stealing a seat beside him at restaurants, team dinners. Mike doesn’t know if he think he’s being subtle or what, if this is hero worship or some misguided way to get the enforcer on his side, but it amuses him, and it’s sort of sweet, so Mike lets it happen, lets Fitzgerald chatter in his ear about whatever’s caught his attention, enjoying the enthusiasm he still has over everything, private planes still a novelty, everything about being in the show exciting, even the same buffet lunches all the fucking time.

He’s like an annoying little brother, but he’s _cute_. Mike hates that he’s cute, and that he knows it, all toothy smiles and puppy dog eyes when he wants something. And more than that, Mike wants him, all awkward in his skin, poorly contained enthusiasm and sort of shy sometimes, worming his way into Mike’s space and sticking around there. He isn’t Mike’s type, Mike prefers people who aren’t so innocent, men closer to his own size and women that are the furthest thing from breakable, but Fitzgerald’s little kid hero worship is endearing, and Mike can’t help but want to shake some of that innocence out of him, knows he’s awful because all he wants to do is get Fitzgerald onto a bed and make him fucking _cry_.

He doesn’t know if Fitzgerald is psychic or just getting even stupider with bravado, because sometime around the point where Mike realises he sort of wants to break him, the kid starts flirting with him. It’s easy to ignore at first, as easy as it had been to ignore Fitzgerald latching onto him in the first place, right until he followed him around so often the team started calling him Mike’s duckling. This is the same, first Fitzgerald sitting closer, until the team’s probably going to start calling him Mike’s _lap dog_ , then he starts talking to Mike all drowsy eyed. Mike vaguely worries Fitzgerald’s wearing himself out for a couple days before he realises that he’s attempting fucking bedroom eyes, and laughs until he cries, because is this his _life_?

Of all the people to flirt with on the Oilers, Mike is possibly the worst choice. Hell, even the married guys would probably be a better bet. Sure, Mike fucks guys sometimes, but it’s not exactly something he advertises, and his very _appearance_ should be scaring Fitzgerald right off, he’s got six inches and probably a good sixty pounds on him, he beats the shit out of people for a _living_. And yet Fitzgerald’s flirting with him like it’s a good idea.

Mike doesn’t know what this is to Fitzgerald, doubts it’s anything genuine, probably Fitzgerald pushing at another limit, seeing how much he can get away with. Hell, for all Mike knows the rookies have a bet going on how far Fitzgerald can take it before Mike smacks him down. Either way, he doesn’t rise to the bait, takes it stoically, pretends he doesn’t even notice, dimly amused by how much that seems to piss Fitzgerald off. He doesn’t know if Fitzgerald’s upping his game or what, because all his attempts are so bad that Mike thinks he got them from Cosmo or from a virgin’s idea of what seduction is, or something. Hell, he may still be a virgin. Mike is an awful person.

Mike is an awful person because that doesn’t make any difference, not the potential virginity, not the age, because as clumsy as Fitzgerald’s attempts are, they’re cute, _he’s_ cute, still has the doe-eyed innocent look about him, but Mike’s seen him on the ice, he’s seen what he can do, he knows the kid’s as vicious, deep down, as the rest of them. He’s got big eyes and hair constantly falling in his face and the kind of ass only a hockey player has, and Mike wants him so much his teeth hurt, but Fitzgerald has no clue what he’s playing with, so Mike keeps his goddamn hands to himself.

The point is, Fitzgerald does his pseudo seduction, Mike puts him in the ‘no, not _ever_ ’ box, and that’s it. Or it would have been if Fitzgerald would have just left it the fuck alone.

*

They win at home, a blowout that leaves Fitzgerald with two assists and Mike with his first goal all season, which puts him in a pretty good mood. Hell, it puts the whole team in a good mood, the blowout strewing around points for all, with eight goals between them. It calls for the sort of team celebration that’s gotten less common as the season’s advanced and the Alberta freeze has sunk into their bones, but most of the team fills tables at their customary bar that night, and when Fitzgerald squeezes in beside Mike in a booth, a spot he can’t take without pressing himself against Mike from knee to hip, Mike just smiles at him, full of good, goal scoring cheer. 

They order a couple pitchers, Rogers across the table looking sort of critically at Fitzgerald when he fills a pint. 

“He’s eighteen, Roge,” Mike reminds him. “He’s legal.”

Rogers rolls his eyes but leaves him alone about the beer, though Fitzgerald beams at Mike like he just defended his honor or something. Hell, Mike shouldn’t have said anything, he doesn’t need any more reminders that Fitzgerald’s legal, if just barely. 

Mike busies himself talking to Rogers, who is an actual _adult_ , while Fitzgerald chatters along with the rest of the rookies. Fitzgerald puts his hand on Mike’s thigh under the table when he’s reaching for a refill, and Mike grits his teeth while he pours himself a drink, steadying his weight on Mike, and then when he doesn’t take his hand off. After a minute, Mike pointedly does it for him, and pours himself his own refill, because he thinks he needs to be drunker if he wants to be able to deal with this brat. He’s mid-swallow when Fitzgerald’s hand creeps back, and when he’s done coughing he looks over, glaring at Fitzgerald who gives him this fucking angelic look, looks so proud of himself.

The other rookies have cleared out to play pool, and Rogers is off having some sort of leadership pow-wow and shot drinking contest with the Cap and the other As, so Mike doesn’t even get an escape route, or someone to throw Fitzgerald at so he can fucking run. He’s been so good, it just figures that he’d be punished for it. 

“Do you know what you’re doing, kid?” Mike asks, gruff, and Fitzgerald just grins at him, no hint of anything fearful in him, which just shows that he’s too young to know any better, way too innocent to be doing anything with Mike.

Mike gets a hand on Fitzgerald’s chin, jerks his head up, and Fitzgerald swallows, the first shadows of doubt on his face, way overdue. “The fuck are you thinking?” Mike asks. “You think you’re safe from me because you’re on my team?”

Fitzgerald pulls his hand back, finally, rubs his chin, where Mike was maybe too rough, but at least the message seems to have gotten through. But then he gets a look on his face, stubborn, mulish, and Mike has the sinking feeling that any lesson he learns rolls like water off his back.

“If you don’t want to, you can just say,” Fitzgerald says, sulky, and great, now he’s made it explicit, he’s damn lucky Mike isn’t the kind of guy who’d spread that around the locker room, the fucking league, what the fuck makes this kid think this is the kind of behavior he can get away with, even with his own team? Especially with his own team.

“I didn’t say that,” Mike says, and Fitzgerald’s eyes snap to meet his, a little wide. Like he didn’t expect that. And of course he didn’t, he was being an idiot teenager and playing chicken with his enforcer, like that was a safe or sane way to spend a night off. 

Mike looks back, steady, and waits for the nervous laugh, for Fitzgerald to disengage, make his excuses, go find some less dangerous thing to do with his time, like standing in traffic or playing hockey.

Fitzgerald doesn’t do any of that, the only sign of nerves the way he licks his lips, which Mike can’t help but watch. He’s always licking them, and they’re chapped from it, but still pink, and now shiny with his spit. “Yeah?” Fitzgerald finally asks, more a breath than an actual question.

Mike raises a shoulder, shrugs. Can’t help but wonder what Fitzgerald would look like, spread out on his sheets, pale skin, the compact strength of him straining against the brute strength that Mike has. The way his pink lips would look around Mike’s cock. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Fitzgerald asks, clearer then, like this is a line he’s practiced, probably looking at himself in the mirror and trying to look faintly bored. It doesn’t work. Fitzgerald’s practically vibrating under his skin.

Mike should say no, should tell him to go fool around with boys his own age, his own size, should tell him to knock it the fuck off and go find someone who doesn’t play hockey, who doesn’t care if he does, like every other closet case in the league. But Fitzgerald’s flashing his big blues, and his hands are shaking, just enough for Mike to notice, and Mike isn’t a saint. He isn’t even a particularly good person.

“You go ahead,” Mike says, finally. “I’ll settle the bill.”

Fitzgerald nods, jerky, and scrambles out of the booth, doesn’t even bother to say goodbye to anyone as he hightails it out of there. Mike rolls his eyes, finishes his drink in a few swallows, the Fitzgerald’s with a few more, then goes to pay for them both, makes sure to actually say his goodbyes to the team, getting a couple cracks about getting too old for the nightlife.

Fitzgerald’s just outside, shivering a little in a jacket that’s too thin for prairie winter. “What took you so long?” he asks, sounding petulant, sounding all of the eighteen he is.

“Social graces,” Mike says, and then ignores Fitzgerald’s furrowed brow.

“You still staying with Rogers?” Mike asks, and Fitzgerald nods.

“Let him know you won’t be home tonight, he’ll worry,” Mike says, and he can see it finally hit Fitzgerald properly, that this isn’t going to stop unless he puts an end to it himself. Mike waits for it, doesn’t know what he’d prefer, Fitzgerald staying stupid and brash and young and coming home with him, or Fitzgerald being smart and going back inside, warming up, huddling close to Rogers, who’ll take care of him, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like clumsily attempt to seduce any other man twice his age, twice his size.

“He won’t care,” Fitzgerald finally says.

“Text him,” Mike says, not a request, and Fitzgerald does while Mike hails a passing cab. Fitzgerald scrambles in while Mike gives the cabbie his address, sits on his own side, not all over Mike like before, and if Mike’s going to have to make him a glass of warm milk and read him a bedtime story and tuck him in on the couch he’s going to be pissed, even if it’ll be for the best.

Fitzgerald clambers right out while Mike’s paying, rubbing his arms as he waits. “You need a better coat,” Mike says, and Fitzgerald rolls his eyes.

“I’m Canadian,” he says, sulky.

“Well, I’m not,” Mike says mildy. “But I’m pretty sure Minnesota’s colder than Halifax. You need a better coat.”

“You’re not my--” Fitzgerald starts, then visibly stops himself.

“Your what?” Mike asks. “Your dad? Is that what this is? Daddy issues?”

He’s turned away to unlock the door, so he can’t see Fitzgerald’s face when he spits out, “Fuck you.”

Mike lets the door swing open, but doesn’t move inside, keeps his back to Fitzgerald when he says, “Let me call you a cab. And in the future, play with nice Canadian boys your own size.”

“Fuck you,” Fitzgerald repeats, grabbing his shoulder, and Mike lets Fitzgerald turn him around, figures he’ll let Fitzgerald think he can get a blow in if that makes him feel any better.

But Fitzgerald doesn’t hit him, though the way he grabs Mike’s shirt to haul him in is almost as violent. He has to get on his tiptoes to kiss Mike, and that’s with Mike cooperating, leaning down the remaining inches. His lips are chapped, like they looked, and he kisses inexpertly, too much tongue, more enthusiasm than skill, and jesus, they’re still outside.

Mike pulls back, and sees Fitzgerald looking kind of wrecked before he pulls him inside, shuts the door behind them.

“Last out,” Mike says. “You want to stop this, you stop this now, kid.”

“I don’t,” Fitzgerald says breathlessly. “I don’t want to.”

“You done this before?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” Fitzgerald says, that petulant look right back on his face.

Mike leans in, gets his mouth against the sharp jut of Fitzgerald’s jaw, his ear, which has gone rosy pink because the kid can’t help but blush, caught out. “Don’t lie to me,” Mike says, against the shell of his ear, and Fitzgerald shivers, hard, hand balling into the back of Mike’s coat.

“No,” Fitzgerald gets out finally, and then, right back to the bravado, “and I bet you like that, don’t you?”

“I prefer having sex with someone who knows what they’re doing, actually,” Mike says, and ignores the flash of hurt he sees on Fitzgerald’s face so he can shrug his coat off, hang it up.

“And you’ve done it?” Fitzgerald asks, “with guys?”

“Yeah, Liam, I’ve done ‘it’ with guys,” Mike says, “did you pick me to have your little crush on because you thought I would be safe, would never take you up on it? Is that it, Fitzgerald?”

“Fuck this,” Fitzgerald spits, turns towards the door, and Mike catches his sleeve, pulls him in, easy. Fitzgerald looks up at him, defiant, but his mouth is trembling and he looks like he can’t decide whether to be scared or hurt or angry, so he’s trying all of them on at once.

“Christ, you’re just a kid,” Mike says, and lets go.

“I’m not,” Fitzgerald says, and then, when Mike won’t look at him, louder, “I’m _not_ ,” getting his hand in Mike’s henley, material in his fist. “You want to fuck me, so fuck me.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” Mike says, but he’s not going to say no. He’s given him an out, he’s given him a dozen outs, and Fitzgerald hasn’t taken him up on a single one of them, so he’s done trying to talk the kid out of sleeping with him, done sabotaging himself so he can feel a little better about his morals. Because Fitzgerald looks young, a little lost, still dressed down to a coat and hat, but he’s looking at Mike like a challenge, and Mike’s competitive, he won’t deny it, they all are, so if Fitzgerald wants him to fuck the challenge out of him, he’ll do it. 

“Why don’t you show me,” Fitzgerald says. Or, christ, Liam, if Mike’s going to have him, he’s barely ever known the last name of anyone he’s fucked, it’s way too much irony to only refer to him by his last name. And Mike’s a good host, so he will, he’ll give him everything he asks for and then some.

“Chuck your jacket,” Mike says, wincing a little when Liam takes him literally and lets it hit the floor, but not saying anything. “You want a drink?”

“I want you to fuck me,” Liam says, like now that he can actually say the words he doesn’t plan on stopping.

“Yeah, we established that,” Mike says. “That’s not what I asked. You want a drink?”

“Okay,” Liam says, taking his hat off, fiddling with it a little, hair mussed out of shape. Mike grabs them both a beer, comes back to find Liam bending down to get a better look at his books.

“Yeah, I read,” Mike says, dry, and Liam almost smacks his head on his bookshelf, straightening himself up. “Haven’t lost all my brain cells yet.”

“I didn’t--” Liam starts.

“Calm down,” Mike says, hands him a can, which Liam takes gratefully, taking a big gulp like a beer’s going to give him all the liquid courage he needs. It isn’t, not one beer anyway, or the pint and a half he had at the bar, but if it makes him feel any braver, who’s Mike to tell him otherwise?

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Mike says, while Liam’s got his mouth full, so all he gets is a glare instead of a protest. “You ever given a handjob?”

“I’m a virgin, I’m not _new_ ,” Liam says hotly.

“Blowjob?” Mike asks, and Liam swallows, doesn’t say anything.

“You want to?” Mike asks, and Liam nods, sort of jerky.

“Come here,” Mike says, and Liam does, doesn’t protest when Mike takes the beer out of his hand, putting it on top of the bookshelf along with his own, just looks at Mike, vaguely questioning, like he’s half expecting Mike to just shove him down on his knees in the middle of the living room. Mike doesn’t, though it’s tempting, just curls his fingers around the fragile nape of his neck and leans down, catches Liam’s mouth with his. 

Liam kisses him back with that same sloppy enthusiasm until Mike slows it down, eases up, slick brushes of lips until Liam catches a clue and follows his lead, then, when he’s got him how he wants him, Mike lets it deepen, fucks the kid’s mouth like he wants to fuck him, like he’d _love_ to fuck him, but he’s not that far gone, not yet. He keeps thinking ‘next time’, like that’s even an option, even close to guaranteed. Liam’s eighteen and has the corresponding attention span of a puppy, Mike’s going to get his pretty lips around his cock and then maybe Liam will take his advice and find a nice Canadian boy to take him apart in all the other ways. Not that they’d know what to do with him.

Mike bites his bottom lip when he pulls back, just enough for it to sting. “Bedroom?” he asks. “Might be easier on your knees.” Lord knows Mike hasn’t been able to get his knees to hit floor since his knee surgery three years back, and the kid took a blocked shot tonight somewhere in the vicinity of his thigh that he has to be feeling by now, the adrenaline and the endorphins that come with it fading enough to let the dull throb set in. 

Liam licks over his lips again, and Mike knows it isn’t on purpose, knows it’s habit, but it still feels like a tease. “Yeah,” he says, finally, a little raw, like Mike’s already fucked his throat, and god, Mike wants to. He won’t, but he wants to.

Liam follows him to the bedroom, hovers in the doorway while Mike busies himself with the buttons of his shirt. “Clothes on or off,” Mike says, shrugging it off and folding it before he puts it on top of his bureau. “It doesn’t matter to me, but I can’t return the favor if you’re wearing pants.”

Well, he can, but he thinks he’ll probably enjoy the view better with them off. And Liam takes his advice like any boy at eighteen would with the lure of a blowjob, shirt off and jeans around his ankles before Mike’s even finished unbuckling his belt. The only reason Mike doesn’t laugh at him is because he’s going to have the kid’s mouth around him in a minute, and so he’s inclined to be generous. 

That and he’s struck by the way Liam’s tenting his boxers, already wet, judging from the dark spot where he’s stretching the material, so hard Mike would barely have to touch him before he went off. “Come here,” Mike says, sitting down on the bed, and grabs Liam’s wrist when he makes like he’s going to kneel right on the floor in front of him. He tugs, and Liam obediently follows, until he’s straddling Mike’s lap, fabric pulling tight around his cock, and Mike can get a hand down his boxers, around his cock, sticky wet, like he’s been hard for fucking hours, probably had been, sitting there at the table with his hand on Mike’s thigh and his heart pounding, his cock so hard he couldn’t see straight.

Mike’s right, it barely takes anything, just Mike’s hand around him, too rough, probably, slicked only with the precome Liam’s leaking, starting a pace hard and fast, almost vicious, until Liam half curls into himself, face buried in Mike’s shoulder, making a noise like he can’t tell if it’s good or it’s too much. He comes fast, easy, just enough to take the edge off so he doesn’t rub himself off against the sheets like a horny kid when he’s got Mike’s cock in his mouth. Mike’s selfish, and he wants to get his mouth on him, to have him struggle to keep his hips still, to keep his hands out of Mike’s hair, all the things he’ll have been taught is the only polite way, all the things Mike doesn’t give a shit about, because the more sex reminds him of a fist fight the hotter it gets him. 

Mike lets Liam gather himself, panting into the column of Mike’s throat while Mike wipes his hands off on the sheets, which are due for a wash anyway. The other hand he lets slide down the back of Liam’s boxers, and he briefly wars with himself on whether it’d really be _that_ bad to fuck him, because he’d love to hear the noises he’d pull out of him two fingers in, let alone balls deep. And his ass really is a work of art, it’d be a shame not to take advantage of the opportunity.

But when Liam finally gathers the presence of mind to shift back against Mike’s hand, Mike regretfully pulls it back, because he has restraint and dignity, and also because Liam’s mouth is a pretty decent consolation prize, especially when he looks at Mike like that, drowsy eyed, a proper set of bedroom eyes, for once, his mouth slack and slick and sweet.

“You with me?” Mike asks, and when Liam nods, he gently nudges the kid off his lap, raises his hips up to slide his briefs down and off. When he shifts up the bed, Liam’s eyes follow, fixed on his cock, then jumping up to Mike’s face, his cheeks going pink--pinker, moreso than the afterglow flush he’s already got. “Come here,” Mike says, and when Liam shifts up the bed to kiss him, Mike lets him, for a minute, before he pulls back, rubs his thumb over Liam’s bottom lip. Liam swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and Mike’s as gentle as he can be when he’s nudging Liam down, until he’s between Mike’s legs, looking so confused it’s like he doesn’t have a cock of his own, which is obviously untrue, judging from the mess of Mike’s sheets.

“Gentle, no teeth,” Mike says. “Don’t choke yourself.” Not that he has anything against either of those, but they’re definitely at least intermediate level, and he doesn’t exactly trust the kid to know what he’s doing, especially with that expression on his face. Liam nods, determined looking, like he’s going to master Mike’s cock if it fucking kills him. It’s kind of flattering, in a way.

He’s tentative, at first, tries a couple moves way more suited for porn than actual sex, and only settles when Mike gets a hand in his hair, holds him still at least long enough to get the head of his cock between his lips. He doesn’t fight the hand; on the contrary, his eyes flutter shut when Mike’s fingers tighten, and it’s so easy to push in, just a couple inches, not deep enough to choke him or fast enough to get a graze of teeth, just enough that it’s as much fucking him as pushing into his ass would be.

Liam puts his hand on Mike’s hip, and Mike settles, because he’s not a total asshole, but all Liam does is tug, a little.

“Fuck, are you serious?” Mike asks, and Liam opens his eyes to look up at him, his expression a pretty clear ‘bring it’, and again, Mike is all about challenges, he loves that shit. 

Mike keeps it shallow, mostly, because while someone gagging around your cock is kind of hot in theory, it tends to derail shit pretty fast, but he keeps his hand fisted in Liam’s short hair, just enough to keep him there, Liam’s mouth slack enough to push into, and he’s enjoying this, he’s so obviously enjoying this, getting off on getting his face fucked, and there is no way in hell that Mike’s going to let this end before he can spread him out on these sheets properly, eat him out until he’s begging, stretching him out around his fingers, around his cock, see if he takes it as sweetly as he does this, eyelashes brushing his cheeks, such a pretty cocksucker.

There’s no technique to this, just the wet heat of Liam’s mouth, his hair hopelessly messed up from Mike’s rough grasp, but that’s fine, it’s working just fine for him, Mike watching the head of his cock slide through Liam’s lips, the accidental graze of his teeth once enough to ratchet it up a little more, get Mike’s hand twisting tighter in Liam’s hair.

“Liam,” Mike warns when he’s getting close, but Liam just looks up again, that same ‘bring it’ look, a look Mike could get used to, hell, wants to get used to, wants to take advantage of. He comes in Liam’s mouth, a decision that Liam clearly regrets when he’s pulling off, swallowing, coughing a little, wiping his mouth and making a face, but Mike’s too content to laugh at him. 

He gestures Liam back to him. He loves tasting himself in someone’s mouth, and Liam kisses slow, easy, drugged, practically, like he’s settled, like all it took was someone fucking his mouth to get him comfortable in his skin. He’s half on Mike, shifting, uncomfortable, against his belly, hard again, which Mike would be more flattered by if he wasn’t eighteen. When Mike nudges him onto his back, he goes, easy, almost fucked out already, and he lifts his hips up obediently when Mike tugs his boxers down his thighs, takes him in without any ceremony.

It’s easy to get him off like this too. All it takes is hard suction, no technique. When Liam’s hips shift up like he can’t help himself, Mike takes it, figures it’s only fair, and he likes the way Liam pushes between his lips, hard and hot and fat, likes the way the muscles of his thighs go tense when he moves, skater’s thighs, a skater’s ass that Mike gets his hands on to pull him deeper. He’s not the beginner Liam is, and even if he does gag, he just gets off on it, so he takes Liam in deep, hard, knows he’s going to sound fucked up tomorrow, rough, and that Liam’s going to go red every time he hears him, is going to think of this. 

When Liam grabs at his hair, it’s clearly a warning, but Mike just leans into the grasp of his hand, takes it while Liam’s halfway down his throat, Mike’s nose against skin, and he swallows around him, Liam shaking a little under his hands, like he’s been taken apart, moaning, wordless and almost sharp, as his fingers get tighter in Mike’s hair, fisting it roughly. Mike just swallows around him until Liam tugs him back, and Mike slides his tongue against the head of his cock, gets another weak spurt against his lips. Liam watches him do it, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck, Mike,” he says, raw, hips nudging forward, his cock rubbing up against Mike’s lower lip, then jerking when Mike turns his head, beard rubbing up against no doubt oversensitive skin, but in a way Liam seems into, making another noise, rough and pleased, before he's reaching down to rub his thumb over Mike’s lips, which are bitter with the taste of his come. 

Mike sits up, and Liam looks up at him, stupefied, hair a lost cause, lips red and wet, looking so fucked out that Mike couldn’t send him home to Rogers like this even if he wanted to. And he’s not sure he does. Should, knows he should, or make up the couch--for Liam, obviously, since that path leads to the murder of Mike’s back. But he doesn’t have the heart to kick the kid out of bed while he still looks like he’s been hit over the head by a hammer, or his first blowjob, or a combination of the two.

Mike just gets the covers up, around them both, reaches into his pants, left within arms’ distance, for his phone, so he can make sure his alarm is set. Liam, of course, takes that as permission to plaster himself against Mike’s back, nose between his shoulder blades. Mike nudges him back, because they’re not fucking cuddling, and if they are, Mike is not the fucking _little spoon_ , and Liam goes peaceably, giving him the wide, dopey smile of the freshly fucked.

“This is not going to become a thing,” Mike warns.

“Okay,” Liam agrees, immediately, looking like he doesn’t believe Mike at all.

Fuck, Mike doesn’t believe _himself_ at all. He’s too fucking old for this shit. There should be a rule against fucking impressionable rookies, just in case they imprint on you like ducklings.

“Just go the fuck to sleep,” Mike groans, and is too resigned to move when Liam slings an arm around his waist, tucks his face in his shoulder, and appears to do exactly that.  


**Author's Note:**

> This involves sex between consenting adults. Due to the inexperience of one participant, it occasionally comes off as dubiously consensual, however he does repeatedly voice consent. Both have had drinks, but not to the level of impaired decision making. 
> 
> Can I warn for a seriously filthy mouth? I figure if you're reading explicit fic you can handle a little salty language. There's a pretty significant age, size and experience difference, but again, consenting adults!


End file.
